


Don't Make it Bad

by Fallynleaf



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 10, Dark, Demon Blood Addiction, Demon Dean Winchester, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-28
Updated: 2015-01-28
Packaged: 2018-03-09 10:08:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3245687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fallynleaf/pseuds/Fallynleaf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean doesn't leave after he becomes a demon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Make it Bad

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Mother's Love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3442685) by [tyanite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tyanite/pseuds/tyanite). 



> This is... not usually the kind of fic I read or write. But [tyanite](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tyanite/pseuds/tyanite) and I felt dissatisfied with the way demon Dean was handled in canon, and we saw several ways the show could've gone with it, but didn't. This is one of those ways. It's also probably the one that the canon was the _least_ likely to pick, for a variety of reasons. But mostly because the incest subtext is really, really strong.
> 
> The title is from "Hey Jude" by the Beatles.

The night after Dean died, after he rose again and Sam was too damned weary to question it just yet, Sam dreamed of his mother. Just a feeling, really. A skin-memory, the sensation of warmth and comfort, _home_. He woke to a cold bed and all of the covers tossed off, his head pounding, a sheen of sweat over his trembling limbs.

The next night, he almost saw her face.

Then the waking world started to blur a bit at the edges. Nothing major enough to seriously impact his hunting. Besides, Dean came back from the dead with a sharp clarity to his movements and reflexes that compensated more than enough for Sam's slowed reaction time.

Sam didn't mention the shadows that skirted his field of vision, sometimes. He didn't mention the tremor in his hand that created  a margin of error that they could not afford. During one case, he found himself clutching his own hand tightly to his chest, his fingers locked around his wrist, contorting it almost enough to dislocate it.

That night, a shadow passed across his open doorway. Sam didn't remember opening his door. In the morning, he didn't remember the shadow, either.

He dreamed of Azazel for the first time in years. But not in a prophetic vision sense. Instead, his dreams featured Azazel superimposed over that same feeling of _home_ and comfort as his memories of Mary. Azazel wore John's face and a gentle smile, his hand poised to stroke Sam's face, but his palm hovered over Sam without touching skin, his yellow eyes bright and piercing, and there was something warm on Sam's lips.

Warm, like mother's milk.

He thought he heard someone singing "Hey Jude," once. When he woke, his face was wet with tears, and he just curled into himself and sobbed. He imagined that maybe a hand stroked his damp hair back from his forehead and a voice said " _Shh, it's okay, Sammy_." But Sam knew that he was just trying to console himself.

Maybe he had finally come to see the bunker as _home_ only for his mind to create a broken shadow memory of Mary to occupy it.

The tremor got worse, and Sam developed a fever that lasted longer than the first waking hour. Dean brought him a bowl of homemade tomato-rice soup, and as Sam sipped it, he thought maybe he had forgotten something that he needed to remember.

He woke prematurely to the feeling of lips pressed against his forehead. But when he opened his eyes, he was alone.

Well, except for the shadows. But Sam was used to darkness in his small, windowless room.

One night, Sam woke and there was a person there. He couldn't make out any of the shapes in the dark, but he could hear the soft, steady sound of someone breathing. Could almost feel the warmth from the intruder's skin, from his breath.

"Dean?" he asked.

"Sammy."

"What's happening? Is something wrong?" Sam scrambled to turn on the light, but fingers reached out and curled around his wrist, restraining him. Sam couldn't make out Dean at all in the dark. Not even the shine of his eyes.

"Everything's fine, Sammy. Go back to sleep," Dean soothed. "Shh, it's okay." He gently pressed Sam back onto the bed, drawing up the bedcovers to tuck Sam in.

Sam licked his chapped lips, and then he tasted something and went still. Because there was a droplet sitting at the corner of his mouth, still warm from its source, and he _knew_ that taste better than anything else.

And he knew where it came from.

Sam reached up and grabbed Dean and pulled him onto the bed, shuffling on top of him in order to pin him there. "You‒" Sam said, his voice low. "You're a‒ You're a demon." His voice cracked, and he swallowed.

He felt the rumble of Dean's laugh. "You can't kill me, Sammy," he said. "You _need_ me."

"Oh god," Sam said. A shiver ran through him. "It's your blood. That's what's been happening to me."

"Just a little bit, Sam," Dean said. "Just enough to get you through each day." Dean smiled, and Sam couldn't see it, couldn't even feel the muscles in Dean's mouth stretch, but he _heard_ the smile in his brother's voice. "Want some more, Sammy? I can give you some more," Dean said.

Some movement shuffled under Sam's pillows, and he knew that Dean had a knife. Sam didn't remember placing one there.

He reached to wrestle for it, but Dean held him back effortlessly, then made a smooth incision high on his own chest.

Demon blood tasted of sin. That's how Sam liked to describe it to himself, when he let himself think about it. Not "good" in any sense of the word except for the one that also meant _guilty-bad-wrong_.

It tasted like pressing your lips to your brother's skin and tasting his fluids on your tongue.

Dean's fingers twined in Sam's hair, and Sam pressed closer, lapping at the open wound, teasing at it to widen the cut. He kept one hand curled around Dean's wrist and splayed his other palm on Dean's chest. Dean was making little sounds in his throat. Moaning sounds. Sam might've been making similar sounds, too.

Afterwards, Sam rested his cheek on Dean's chest. He stayed like that for a minute, feeling his body thrum with energy, his thoughts crystalline. Then he let go of Dean and climbed off of the bed.

He returned with a syringe.

When he turned on the light in the room, Dean's eyes were solid black. "Confessed your sins for me, Sammy?" Dean said, giving a weak chuckle.

"No."

Sam grabbed Dean's arm and plunged the needle into it, holding him tight as he writhed in pain. "If I'm going to need it, then so will you," Sam said, his voice cold and steady. He flexed his powers, and it felt like stretching a muscle he hadn't used in a long time.

"We're gonna make one hell of a team, Sammy," Dean said. "Not quite demon, not quite human."

Sam looked at him, and for the first time in weeks, he didn't feel tired anymore.

"We always have."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Mother's Love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3442685) by [tyanite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tyanite/pseuds/tyanite)




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